


Strung along

by Hexes



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Emotionally constipated characters, Finger Sucking, M/M, No actual sex, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexes/pseuds/Hexes
Summary: Richard gets into the Atlantean wine. Peregrine wants to get into Richard. The Marquis intervenes, but doesn't get into Richard. Yet.





	Strung along

The Marquis de Carabas was an intrinsically greedy creature. He had, after all, named himself after a _cat_. Peregrine, on the other hand, was just intrinsically a little _shit._  And he was being especially shitty because he _knew_ he was under the Marquis’ skin.  

Peregrine had one hand splayed possessively over the small of the New Greatest Hunter of London Below's back, which he was using shamelessly to maneuver the blushing blond, pushing his hips in a completely unsubtle mimicry of sex. Richard had been into the Atlantean wine, just as they all had done, but he seemed altogether more affected by it than either Peregrine, or the Marquis, or any number of the others that had dared try the drink. Or perhaps he was simply flattered by the attention of someone quite so comely as Peregrine, made giddy, and coquettish. The Marquis fumed. Peregrine preened - the little _shit._

Peregrine shoved Richard against the nearest wall, caught up the blond’s right knee, and hooked it over his hip. Richard laughed, pushing gently at Peregrine's shoulders.

“I'm straight, you brute-” he interrupted himself with a giggle, his brogue even thicker now that he was drunk and seeing stars.

“Ah - there you do not know of what you speak,” Peregrine ground his hips up, his breathing beginning to hitch. “You're lovely, I'm gorgeous, it's catch as catch can, popkin.”

The Marquis insinuated himself into the situation, leaning against the column near where his brother was molesting the drunken hunter.

“Brother mine - mayhap the wee lad is unable to participate in the game, given his current… predicament?” The Marquis was pleased to see Richard lose his footing for precisely no reason.

Peregrine smiled that horrible, knowing smile he often did when he had figured out something the Marquis wished he hadn't. He dropped Richard's knee, stepping away like a shadow dancer, leaving the Marquis to catch him.

“Wait much longer, little brother, and I'll spirit him away.” He turned on the ball of his foot, floating away to investigate the other party goers.

“You're gorgeous,” Richard intoned kittenishly, looking rather too pleased with his change of partners.

“And _you_ are drunk.” The Marquis groused firmly.

“No more'n you, you peevish pussycat,” Richard pouted, righting himself.

The Marquis de Carabas was an enduring creature. Proud and clever, he could withstand a great many things, but mockery by a sloshed _upworlder_ was not on the list of “To Be Endured”. He seized Richard's arm, wheeled him around and marched him into one of the many rooms scattered around Islington’s prison, snapped the door closed, and slammed Richard up against it hard enough to wind him.

“Much more than me, lad,” he tossed Richard onto the bed, with its distressingly white linens. “And now you're going to sleep it off.” The Marquis was setting himself up for a dramatic exit when Richard decided to ruin everything by unbuttoning his shirt while chewing his lower lip.

“You're not going to leave me in the lurch, are you?”

The Marquis was an _enduring creature_. Really, he endured more shit on most days than most did in their entire lives. But he was also _greedy_ , and the slow reveal of pale skin made him want more.

“Why? Do you think that you _deserve_ something?”

“ _Deserve_ is a strong word, Maquis,” Richard frowned, a button working its way free of the hole, “ _want_ is more fitting, I think.” Another button gave way. Richard ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip invitingly.

The Marquis sashayed back to the bed, snatched one of Richard's wrists, and pinned it above his head. He quickly gathered the other wrist and brought it up to its twin.

“And what do you _want_ , you little miscreant?”

“A goodnight kiss, perhaps?” Richard was flush with the wine, his eyes glassy, and yet he still managed to look utterly delectable. The shameless flirting and token struggles against the grasp on his wrists were no doubt contributing to his charm. The Marquis smirked. Retaining his hold on Richard's wrists, he slid one hand down to stroke the upworlder’s lips.

“Kisses are generally for waking,” he pushed against the soft skin when Richard made to speak. “But I could be convinced, I suppose,” he tapped his pointer finger against Richard’s lower lip, as though he were knocking at a door. Richard obligingly opened his mouth, shyly sucking the Marquis’ finger. “If you behave.” Sliding his middle finger in alongside, he pushed gently. “Suck.”

Richard melted in fits and bursts, like sugar in a hot pan, narrowing his focus to the Marquis’ fingers. Slightly rough, bitter with the brine of the hors-d'oeuvres he’d been fussing over. Richard's eyes fluttered open, looking up from under his lashes.

“Keep sucking, Dick.”

Richard shuddered, hard in his pants, the material of his trousers becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The Marquis’ clever hand sneaked downwards, cupping Richard's arousal, rubbing gently, enraptured by the way Richard suckled on his fingers. Richard's hips jerked up, breathing frantically through his nose.

“Are you close, _upworlder_?” The Marquis purred, smirking crookedly. Richard continued to rut against his hand, sucking on his fingers, looking desperate and debauched in every sense of _both_ words.

“Yes,” he gasped around the Marquis’ thick fingers, shuddering under the Marquis’ expert ministrations. “Yes, Marquis,” he whined, now.  “Always with you,”

“Always?” The Marquis chuckled, warmed by the idea that Richard struggled with arousal in his presence. The idea was deeply intriguing. “Then why don't you show me?” He added a touch of compulsion to his voice, enchanted by the rolling of Richard's eyes.

“Marquis!” Orgasm seized Richard like he was a paper boat in a typhoon, and he came, shuddering, all over the inside of his trousers.

“Yes, Richard?” The Marquis pulled away, inordinately pleased. Richard made quite the picture: Ruddy cheeks, mussed hair, his breath wracking his body. The Marquis stood, stretching, and contemplated his course of action. Perhaps he'd slip away for a moment, just to rile the upworlder, before indulging the other man's apparent need for the Marquis.

“Don't go?” He sighed, already resigned to being left, sticky and ashamed of how quickly he'd fallen apart. The Marquis curled a mischievous smirk at Richard.

“One must always play their hand close in matters of the heart, and on the battlefield.” Draping his coat on the chair, the Marquis spun on his heel, snagging the door open and tossing casually over his shoulder, “Love is a battlefield.”

The door snapped to, and Richard collapsed against the mattress. Leave it to someone who named themselves after a cat to imply that love should hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is months and months of trying to get these two to just bang already, but they're being resistant, and I have like, a thousand pages of Punisher comics to read (and Frank never says 'no' to me when I write /him/) so... I give up.
> 
> Comments are author treats.


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